by Eric Red
Instead she was thinking of her two friends.
Adrenaline pumped through her veins and her limbs felt energized and powerful as Marshal Bess ran fast up the snowy embankment, heading toward the mountain range in the direction they had left the horses.
She had to find Joe Noose.
CHAPTER 36
Joe Noose had lost Emmett, at least he thought he had shaken him. Even though he cut a big figure, the lack of visibility in the snowstorm made his tricky evasive maneuver of heading in one direction then doubling back a simple but effective one; he’d gotten away from the marshal who had been bird-dogging him for reasons he had yet to figure out, though he had a few ideas. The bounty hunter was thinking about some of them as he patrolled the ridge hunting for The Brander, when an unusual light in the distance caught his attention.
Noose saw the glow of flames through the snow so he went that way. A bloom of blurry orange light was brightening behind the veils of sleet. It was a big fire. And a good bet that The Brander had something to do with setting it, the bounty hunter surmised, locking on to his target like a bloodhound on a scent.
He had no idea how far off the fire was in the howling blizzard, because distance perception ended about three feet ahead. So Noose just used the light as his guide and headed for it. Keeping his rifle at the ready, he plowed forward through the driving wind and snow. The smell of burning wood and some type of accelerant filled his nostrils as he approached so Noose knew it was a structure fire long before he reached it. He knew it was arson and who the arsonist was. Ahead, the inferno’s radiant evanescence scintillated the falling snowflakes into a rain of glittering diamonds, a surreal splendor in the shooting stars of sleet illuminated from within by the reflecting flames, but for Noose it became an evil beauty as the ugly odor of burning flesh filled his nostrils and the hideous high-pitched screams of a man being burned alive reached his ears.
A few more paces brought him to the scene.
The burning cabin was completely engulfed in flames, streams of fire shooting out the doors and windows, the structure being devoured in a boiling ball of orange fire rolling up into the sky amid turbulent clouds of billowing oily black smoke. The ghastly agonized screams coming from someone inside ended abruptly when the roof collapsed in explosions of sparks.
The Brander had torched the place to burn up one of his victims and that arson fire had been set in the last half hour, Noose judged, because the victim had only just now expired. The fiend who set it could not have gone far.
Bracing for action, Joe Noose shouldered his rifle and swung his aim across the surrounding area, turning his body in a complete rotation, swinging the long barrel where his eye went, checking the perimeter down the gunsights.
Less than a second after he saw movement, his finger squeezed the trigger without hesitation.
Noose shot into the snow.
The snow shot back.
A big slug slammed into the tree behind him a foot from his head, punching a fist-sized hole in the trunk.
Winchester socked to his shoulder, Noose loosed a volley of five shots at the spot where he glimpsed the muzzle flash when he was fired upon. Levering his repeater again and again, he loosed five more rounds into the same spot, but he couldn’t see anything. Too much snow. It was like shooting into a white sheet that covered the world.
It sounded like his bullets hit something, but Noose couldn’t tell. He had been in a lot of gunfights but never one where he couldn’t see what he was shooting at. It was unnerving as hell. Taking cover behind the nearby trunk of a pine tree at the edge of the forest, he stayed low, waiting for return fire. None came. There were no more shots. Maybe he hit the son of a bitch, maybe not—The Brander knew the bounty hunter’s position from where his shots came and might be changing his own position.
Reloading his Winchester, Noose kept his eyes open and his ears peeled. Wasn’t much to see but white snow blowing everywhere.
It was what he heard that now made his sphincter tighten. Minutes after the bullets had been exchanged, the sound of those gunshots still echoed through the mountains above him, the fading reverberation of the discharges trailing off in endless sonic decay.
But this was a terrifying new sound: a terrible thundering rumble trembled through the titanic mountaintops over his head, as unimaginable tons of snow were being dislodged by the sound of the loud gunshots that still echoed through the peaks. The ominous low rumble was intermittent but persistent, threatening a catastrophic avalanche. If those big mountains dropped on their heads, there was nowhere to run and no escape, and it would be the end of all of them—Bess, Emmett, The Brander, and himself.
You can’t fire guns up here, Noose understood now, it can start an avalanche! Hoping he hadn’t realized it too late, Noose prayed to hell The Brander could hear that rumble and figured out about guns and avalanches, too.
Holding his position behind the tree, Noose shouted out into the white squall. “Hey, Quaid! Hold your fire! Hear that rumble? That’s an avalanche about to start! We gotta stop shooting now! A slide will kill us all! The sound of our guns is gonna bring this mountain crashing down on top of us if we don’t stop shooting now, so no more guns, agreed? I’m putting down my firearms! I won’t shoot another bullet, you got my word! You don’t shoot, either! You listening, Quaid? Can you hear me? Did one of my bullets kill you? If you’re alive, say so!”
There was no response. The blizzard howled unabated. Branches rustled. Wind whooshed. The mountains rumbled but soon the rumbling stopped.
“Now I intend to kill you, Quaid, and I know you mean to kill me! Let’s fight hand to hand! Finish it! Like men! No guns! Agreed?”
No answer.
“Agreed?”
“Agreed.” The scary voice was so damn close it was like somebody whispered in Joe’s ear.
Noose leapt up and spun around, rattled, looking everywhere around him. Nobody was there. He was surrounded by snowy oblivion, blank white space. Drawing his bowie knife, he brandished the huge razor-sharp blade, ready to stab or slash anything that moved.
Nothing did.
“C’mon!” he yelled.
Laughter floated eerily on the wind.
“Hey, Quaid. You probably don’t remember me but I remember you. I never forgot what you did to me back when I was a kid. Now I’ve come for you. I’m back to settle the score. Today is the reckoning.”
Wielding his knife, the bounty hunter began walking, looking for the fiend. The blizzard swirled around him, sweeping him in sheets of snow and blowing his coat like a flag. Noose strode forth into the whiteness, keeping a sharp lookout for The Brander.
“You can run but you can’t hide.”
A red-hot branding iron was suddenly pressed against the back of his shoulder, searing instantly through the cloth of his coat and shirt and sizzling into his flesh! Noose threw his head back and screamed in agony, rounding violently and slashing his bowie knife at the fiend who ambushed him from behind. His blade cut air. The Brander wasn’t there, as if he’d evaporated. “Aggghhhhhh!” Noose screamed into the storm. Looking all around himself, he saw no sign of anyone in the snowstorm.
Joe Noose was shaking head to foot . . . the shock of being branded again by the same man brought him back to being thirteen when it happened the first time and now all those emotions came back up to overwhelm him as he reexperienced the identical raw terror and helplessness he had felt when he was a teen branded at the old man’s hands, and Joe was that kid again.
Fear was all over him like stink.
Fear of Abraham Quaid.
He’d forgotten what true fear felt like.
Paralyzed by this irrational terror the bounty hunter was physically immobilized. He couldn’t defend himself. Noose was thirteen Joe not adult Joe. Too scared to fight back against this man. Ready to piss his pants. What was he going to do with the knife in his hand now that he felt too scared to use it? The bounty hunter wanted to flee. Every instinct of that thirteen-year-old kid told him to run
. The scared kid was in control of Joe now. The fear that Abe Quaid put in him so long ago had returned and had him in an unbreakable iron grip. Scared to fight back.
He saw a spot of red glowing in the white snowfall.
Knew what it was.
The red-hot Q hissed, steamed, as snowflakes falling on the hot metal instantly melted, the sizzling drips of water looking like drops of blood in the red glow of the brand.
Noose was hypnotized by the brand, couldn’t take his eyes off the disembodied red glow in the void.
His hand clutching the bowie knife lowered, his arm dropping, but he didn’t notice. Hypnotized by the searing glow of the brand coming relentlessly toward him, Joe couldn’t move, overwhelmed with memories as a kid of Abraham Quaid coming closer with the brand, this brand, reliving it all again right here, the pain, the pain . . .
The real Noose tried to push down the old fear.
Movement in the snow. The silhouette of The Brander materialized in the snow ahead of him: the clothes, the long white hair, the burning eyes of Abraham Quaid . . . and the blazing branding iron. Joe could already feel the heat coming off it.
“No,” he said. Trying to raise the knife in his hand, he couldn’t.
The Brander kept coming, heat from the branding iron getting hotter on Noose’s skin.
“No,” Noose said more firmly, his hand clenching tighter around the haft of the bowie knife, and his arm began to raise. Teeth grit. “No.” Rage made his muscles work and Joe lifted the blade so he could stab with it.
A sudden searing pain on the back of his hand made him drop the knife after The Brander gave him a vicious thrust with the scalding brand.
Pulling his hand back, Noose rubbed the burned flesh.
It hurt like hell.
And with the pain came resolve.
This man was never going to burn him again.
Raising his dangerous gaze to stare into the depths of The Brander’s shadowed face, it was time to hit back.
“You dirty, miserable son of a bitch!”
With his right fist, Joe Noose threw a roundhouse punch connecting with The Brander’s jaw, snapping the fiend’s head in one direction, following through with a roundhouse left that snapped the old man’s head in the other direction, staggering him backward.
The Brander fell in the snow and before he could get up Joe Noose’s boot came down on his chest hard, pinning him down. The big cowboy towered over the fiend, a force of pure vengeance. “Now it’s my turn. Prepare for the reckoning, old man.” He wrenched the branding iron from the fiend’s grip.
“Payback time!” Noose shoved the red-hot Q right in The Brander’s face. Branding him! The scalding metal seared the fiend’s flesh down to the skull. Clouds of steam heat and smoke of sizzling flesh roiled into the air ringing with The Brander’s anguished screams and squeals of “ No, no, no, no, no,” as he clawed like a wild animal at Noose’s arms, squirming like a pinned bug—but the big cowboy leaned into it, pressing down on the branding iron with all the might in his muscled shoulders, using both arms to increase the pressure on the scalding branding iron roasting the hide off The Brander’s face. He wanted him to feel it. Noose tried to press that red-hot brand through the fiend’s skull and brand his brain, burning it to ash. Wanted him to feel the cranial bone cave in and feel the damn brand sink into his soft brain tissue . . . Joe Noose wanted to feel Abraham Quaid die.
Instead, what Noose felt was a blow to the head from a rock that The Brander had picked up off the ground, thrown with the desperate strength of a dying animal fighting for his life.
The rock struck the bounty hunter in the temple hard, knocking him senseless. Dropping the brand, Noose staggered back, dazed, feeling hot blood pouring down his face, his balance tripping. His boots suddenly slid out from under him and Noose fell forward, hitting the ground face-first in the snow, the shock of cold frost on his face snapping him to his senses quickly enough to realize he was skidding backward down an icy slick incline. Looking over his shoulder, he saw he was sliding straight toward the edge of a cliff hundreds of feet high.
With no way to stop himself.
The Brander. The cowboy looked back and saw the wounded fiend was getting away. Clutching his horribly burned face with both hands, The Brander fled, staggering and stumbling off up the opposite slope, screeching like a scalded cat, his coat flapping behind him like a cape.
Noose slid backward down the slippery iced embankment, grabbing at anything for purchase, fingers skidding on the ice. There was nothing to grab on to.
He was going to die.
His final thoughts were of his worst enemy—I got you back, you son of a bitch—then he thought of Bess, picturing her face, and wanted to tell her how he felt about her, then over he went.
Feeling the ground disappear, Noose made a blind grab. Grabbed a fistful of air.
Then he plunged.
A hand grabbed his wrist in an iron grip, breaking his fall.
“Grab my arm!” Emmett shouted.
Noose swung his free hand up and seized the forearm of the marshal flattened on his stomach on the roof of the cliff leaning over the edge. With a strong yank and cry of exertion, Emmett hoisted Noose high enough for him to get an arm up over the ledge, then after plenty of struggle, the marshal helped the bounty hunter haul himself back on top of the cliff. They both sat on the ground gasping for breath, exhaling in relief.
“You okay?” Emmett asked, pointing at the bleeding gash on Noose’s head.
“Yeah.”
“You met up with him.”
“Yeah, I did.”
“You kill him?”
“No. Better.”
Emmett looked at Noose and saw he had a savage grin.
“I branded him.”
The marshal recognized the ironic justice in that and nodded, but said nothing and averted his gaze.
The bounty hunter rose and brushed himself off, extending his hand down to Emmett, who took it, letting himself be pulled to his feet. Noose was looking him square in the eye with fellowship and gratitude. “You saved my life. Thank you.”
Emmett nodded with a joking smile. “Guess you’re glad I stuck to you like glue now after all.”
The two friends chuckled.
“Hell yes. I owe you.” Noose shook Emmett’s hand in a firm grip of friendship that was fitfully returned.
Through the swirling snow, the marshal spotted something on the ground and went over and picked it up.
The Q brand, cooled to a cold, dead, ugly piece of metal.
“Want to keep it as a souvenir?” Emmett joked, offering it to Noose.
Noose took it and threw the branding iron as far as he could off the cliff, into oblivion.
Then he clapped his friend on the shoulder. “We got us one last piece of unfinished business to take care of.” Aiming a glance down at the snow, Noose spotted the tracks heading up the steep slope to the highest ridges atop the upper elevations where all visibility ceased. Turning to Emmett, he cocked his head to indicate where their quarry, The Brander, had fled. “He went that way. Let’s go get him. Together.”
The marshal beamed proudly. “You betcha. After you, Joe.”
CHAPTER 37
“Lead the way. I got your back.”
Drawing both his revolvers, Joe Noose advanced up the hill, trudging through the snow. Emmett Ford, his single Remington 1875 pistol in his glove, followed in his tracks a few steps behind.
Before them, the snow-and-ice-covered ridge was a wall of white in the swirling flakes. Beyond, towering titanic above, the mountain was a hazy outline of staggering scale.
A pair of tracks traipsing into them were rapidly filling with snow, and in minutes would be invisible.
The Brander was close.
They’d come to the end of the road, at the top of the world.
Noose froze as he heard the snick of a hammer of a pistol cocked behind his back.
“Drop your pistols, Joe.”
“What’s on y
our mind, Emmett?”
“Drop ’em. Now. Do as I say. I don’t want to shoot you and definitely not in the back but I will if you force me. Drop those pistols in the snow and step away from them.”
With a dark sigh, the bounty hunter opened his hands and let his twin Colt Peacemakers fall into the cold snow.
“Step away from the guns.”
Noose took a few steps sideways.
Emmett moved fast, sidestepping upward and swinging down to scoop up both of Noose’s revolvers, which he stuffed in the pockets of his coat.
Disarmed, the bounty hunter warily looked the marshal dead in the eye. “Slick move, Ford, or should I call you Quaid?” he snarled.
“How long have you known?”
“A while.”
“You figured that out and still you let me get the drop on you?”
“Wanted to see how it played out. I know what you want to do, Emmett. You mean to save your father, but you can’t. Your father is a sick animal. And a sick animal gotta be put down.”
“I’m his son, Noose. He’s the only father I got and I gotta try to save him, even if I can’t.”
“A man has to know when to give up.”
“You didn’t give up, Noose. Remember the story you told me about bringing your horse back to health in Victor because you loved him, because he was your best friend, even though everybody, everybody, told you to put it down. But you didn’t. You healed him. And you brought him back.”
“Because Copper could be rescued. Your father can’t be. He’s a sick animal.”
“My father revenged himself against criminals the law was supposed to protect him from and didn’t, the law those same criminals bribed to let them go free. Yes, when the law failed, my father turned to the Law of the Gun. Yes, he executed the men who stole his cattle, burned his ranch, then shot and left him for dead. Yes, he executed the crooked lawmen that protected those badmen and profited from their crimes. Yes, you’re right he got revenge by taking the law into his own hands. So what? Those badmen all had it coming, every last one of ’em.”